Untitled
by procol harum
Summary: “Really just you,” Tom agreed. “Besides, I never really liked chicken, burned or not, anyways.” i dunno what genres to put... humour, romance, h/c, gen, hell, even a bit of angst/drama they all fit...


i _was_ on a writing binge yesterday until the talking blue dinosaur distracted me and by the time that was over i had forgotten about writing and the shinyness seemed more important, anyhow.

**Title: **Untitled**  
**

**Characters/Pairing: **Tom Hanson, Doug Penhall – Penson**  
**

**Rating: **PG

**Warnings: **slash... i'm pretty sure I swear

**Disclaimer: **iown nothing

**Summary: **"Really just you," Tom agreed. "Besides, I never really liked chicken, burned or not, anyways."

**A/N:** jeeee I dunno what the fuck this is, really. Just something I wrote without meaning too...

Doug had finally just given into the urge and asked the question bluntly and quickly, a sheepish grin spreading across blushed features. The smile widened and the blush faded when Tom said yes.

Two days later they were at Rocket Dog – Tom's idea, because a first date between guys didn't have to be all that fancy unless one of them was secretly a girl, or had female tendencies. Doug had quickly denied this and Tom had laughed before, "Rocket Dog it is, then."

Tom ordered a hot dog with just ketchup, relish, and mustard, and Doug ordered the same, but with no mustard. Tom had tried telling him that only weird people hated mustard and Doug had just shrugged his shoulders casually. "I am weird, Tommy. Just never knew me hatin' mustard had anything to do with it."

Swallowing his last bit of bun, Doug cast Tom an awkward look, a smile slowly forming. And it wasn't that normal kind of smile, or even a Doug Penhall kind of normal smile; it was funny looking and plainly meant that Doug was up to _something._

Tom found out soon enough what that was when he stood to go to the washroom. Doug followed momentarily, smile still there, and when Tom had finished washing his hands – twice, with a lot of soap, because public washrooms were never really clean – Doug was there. Tom let out a yelp of surprise when Doug pushed him up against the wall, but was quickly moaning into the lips pressed firmly against his own. He had never kissed a guy before, but now he was wondering why not? It was the best kiss he had ever received. When Doug pulled away, slightly breathless and letting out short wisps of air, Tom was grinning like he had the first time he had gone to the zoo, except this was way better than lions and tigers and bears – oh _my_.

Doug was grinning too, except it was an embarrassed sort of smile, like a teenager who had just learned about sex for the very first time and was oh so curious and willing to test this new knowledge out.

"This was an awesome first date," Tom finally spoke up, grin still plastered there, and two seconds later he had leaned forward to replenish the taste of Doug in his mouth – both were too busy to notice the man who walked in only wanting to 'take care of business' but found them instead. He had shot a look of disgust in their direction before deciding, like Tom but in a different way, that public washrooms really weren't that clean.

--

It had been a month now, and their relationship was stronger, far stronger, than it ever had been. As best friends, they had known a lot about each other, like Tom knowing that Doug was claustrophobic and Doug knowing about Tom's Wednesday night bowling expeditions. But now, after a long month of sharing and being together far more often than before, Doug was beginning to figure out another one of Tom's secrets, although it seemed too much like a habit and it worried him.

Tom wasn't exactly an alcoholic, but there always seemed to be a case of beer in his fridge, and every night Tom would drink two or three, and if he was really bad off, then another two or three would be added. But no, Doug couldn't bring himself to call Tom an alcoholic because it just didn't seem fair. He drank a fair bit, too, although not as much as Tom, but he knew how easy it was to drown your problems in the poison disguised as relief.

After a month, though, Doug was beginning to think maybe Tom was drinking too much beer.

"Oh come on!" Tom screeched, voice pitched higher than normal and Doug was beginning to wish that he had brought this up when Tom was sober.

"Not _come on_." Doug argued. "You drink way too much Tommy. I mean, I've seen you drink at least two beers a day for the last month, and yeah, maybe that's not a lot, but it adds up."

"Why do you even care?" Tom questioned, words slightly slurred but he had only had three and a half beers that night and wasn't entirely drunk.

_Because you're doin' exactly what my dad did,_ Doug thought bitterly, but knew that he would never be able to speak those words out loud. "Because I, I-" Doug faltered, the words stuck in his throat like a lump of peanut butter. "I fucking love you, Tommy, and this, all this, is killing you. And I hate watching it happen."

Tom stared at Doug in surprise, the words cutting into him deep like a knife. He had never really thought that his drinking was that bad, but it was _hurting _Doug. And the last thing Tom wanted to do was hurt Doug.

"I-I'm sorry," Tom let out slowly, tears falling from his eyes, unfinished beer in his hand forgotten. "I love you too, Doug, and I'm so sorry. I didn't know, it was just beer, ya know? It always made the pain go away for me... I never thought it could be hurting you."

Doug let out an uneasy sigh, tears in his own eyes but never falling. He moved towards Tom, pulled the bottle from his hand, and set it down on the table. "Won't be needin' that," Tom mumbled wearily as he followed Doug's actions. "Just, just... will you help me?" Tom questioned uneasily. "I don't wanna do this anymore if it hurts you – and me. But I'm gonna need help if I wanna stop."

"Of course I'll help," Doug agreed quickly, pulling Tom closer to him. "Just tell me when and how, and I'll be there. I always will."

Tom pushed Doug towards the couch, curling up beside the older man after he had gotten into a comfortable position. "I just wanna do this right now," he mumbled, yawning, and Doug felt worry tug at him as he realized just how needy and vulnerable Tom seemed to be. But like he had stated, he would always be there to help.

--

Tom's birthday came eight days later, and he had yet to touch a single beer. Doug had told him that he hadn't needed to quit drinking it entirely, and Tom had said he wasn't planning on it – he just hadn't felt the need to go to beer for his problem solving. He had Doug, after all, and Tom found that that was the best solution to any problem.

Doug had taken Tom's words to heart, smiling gratefully. He had set up a party for the younger man, to celebrate turning twenty-three, as well as being sober for that long. He knew the soberness probably wouldn't last, but the fact that Tom had gone as far as he had so far amazed Doug. He was also very proud of his boyfriend, and knew that celebration was in order.

Tom smiled widely when the confetti was thrown in his face and then everybody was laughing and shouting exclamations of congratulations. He never did like parties, but the fact that Doug had gone through the trouble of doing it for him made it easily acceptable. And besides, he was at least going to be able to spend it with all the people he cared about the most, and that seemed like a good enough thing to celebrate itself.

"No way, Tommy," Doug whispered arguably. "You said you liked chocolate better."

"No I didn't," Tom countered. "I like vanilla frosting. Always have, always will."

"But what about the cake?" Doug whined, voice raising. If Tom didn't like the frosting on his own birthday cake, then what was the point of it being there?

"Oh calm down," Tom muttered with a small laugh. "I said I preferred vanilla, not that I only liked it; the chocolate's fine."

And after the party Doug had one more surprise for Tom.

"What the hell?" Tom mumbled as he entered the apartment, a strong scent of burnt chicken entering his nose. Doug had left the party at the chapel early, telling Tom not to follow him home until an hour later – the smell gave him a good sense as to why.

"Doug?" Tom called out uneasily, heading through the apartment towards the kitchen. He heard Doug mumble some expletives towards road kill under his breath as he went, and he grinned slightly.

"Honey! I'm hooome," Tom called out cheerily, and Doug emerged after one more _fuck!_

"Don't worry about the chicken," Tom added when Doug moved towards him, pouting and trying to figure out a way to explain the smell.

"But it was supposed to be special, ya know?" Doug replied slowly. "But I kinda forgot I couldn't cook. It's still edible, though!"

"I don't need food to make me happy, Doug," Tom replied half-heartedly as if it was that obvious. "This day has been great so far and it's all because you've been there. Not because of a party, or icing, or burnt chicken. Just you."

"Really?" Doug replied, not quite believing it. But why Tom would lie about it was beyond him.

"Really just you," Tom agreed. "Besides, I never really liked chicken, burned or not, anyways."


End file.
